Wearily Sue obeyed.
But， lo！ after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind thathad endured through the livelong night， there yet stood outagainst the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine.
Still dark green near its stem， but with its serrated edges tintedwith the yellow of dissolution and decay， it hung bravely froma branch some twenty feet above the ground.
“It is the last one，” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surelyfall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day， and Ishall die at the same time.”
“Dear， dear！” said Sue， leaning her worn face down to thepillow， “think of me， if you won’t think of yourself. What wouldI do？”
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all theworld is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious，far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly asone by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earthwere loosed.
The day wore away， and even through the twilight theycould see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall.
And then， with the coming of the night the north wind wasagain loosed， while the rain still beat against the windows andpattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy， the merciless， commandedthat the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she calledto Sue， who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
“I’ve been a bad girl， Sudie，” said Johnsy. “Something hasmade that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was.
It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now，and some milk with a little port in it， and—no； bring me ahand-mirror first， and then pack some pillows about me， and Iwill sit up and watch you cook.”
An hour later she said.
“Sudie， some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”
The doctor came in the afternoon， and Sue had an excuse togo into the hallway as he left.
“Even chances，” said the doctor， taking Sue’s thin， shakinghand in his. “With good nursing You’ll win. And now I mustsee another case I have downstairs. Behrman， his nameis—some kind of an artist， I believe. Pneumonia， too. He isan old， weak man， and the attack is acute. There is no hopefor him； but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made morecomfortable.”
The next day the doctor said to Sue： “She’s out of danger.
You’ve won. Nutrition and care now—that’s all.”
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay，contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolenshoulder scarf， and put one arm around her， pillows and all.
“I have something to tell you， white mouse，” she said. “Mr.
Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was illonly two days. The janitor found him on the morning of thefirst day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoesand clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’timagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. Andthen they found a lantern， still lighted， and a ladder that hadbeen dragged from its place， and some scattered brushes， anda palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it， and—lookout the window， dear， at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’tyou wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the windblew？ Ah， darling， it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted itthere the night that the last leaf fell.”
